[hider=Fighting]A crusade against the malevolent forces of Grimm. The very thought of it brought shivers to her spine. Being placed upon the front lines of combat ... such a prestigious position was alluring enough for her to have left her native Mistral behind to partake in Vale's tourney alongside those of Beacon. Her blood seared through her veins, its heat urging her onwards into battle. She had crossed the treacherous seas, endured the parched winds of the deserts and fought the endless hordes of abominations for this opportunity. It would not be at this moment that she would finally stumble. Her struggles ... her sweat and tears ... she would not allow herself to lose here to these filthy barbarians, so far from the light of Mistral's Empire.

"Step forth, Gratia of Haven!"

She was not the only soul from Mistral's grand academy, but one of a quartet. They were, excluding a certain bastard son, the greatest and brightest of young squires her kingdom could offer Vale's great crusade. Her hands gripped tighter against the hilt of her cherished Valens, sweat glistening upon her brow. The blade was dull, its image one of mere squalor when matched against those of her potential foes. It was but a serf's tacky ornament, a weapon unworthy to be wielded in magnificent combat against the light of Remnant's future leaders. She did not care. Not an inch of emotion to spare for those who saw her blade as an insult to their nobility.

A peasant's weapon for the peasant-born.

It was all that she needed to strike him down.

"Step forth, Napoli of Haven, son of Fiordilatte!"

Her foe descended the steps to the battlefield in his typical smug fashion. She bared her teeth in anger, only to receive a cheery smile ([i]one that failed to reach his eyes[/i]) in return. After so many suns ... her chance had arrived. It would be upon this battlefield that she could let loose and cut down the hated formaggio. An angry giggle escaped her lips. Her shoulders heaved. The Lord had truly granted her providence upon this day. She would enjoy crushing that accursed face into the dirt and leave the corpse to the maggots. No inferior cheese-eating scum would triumph here. Napoli Fiordilatte would fall by her hand, like a boar to be hunted for sport.

Fire burnt in her eyes. It burnt at a fever-pitch, brighter than even Orion's Dog.

"[color=66cd00]This is going to be so fucking fun, Fiordilatte,[/color]" she hissed, tongue running across her gleaming white teeth.

Napoli shook his head in that horribly arrogant manner of his and laughed, throat vibrating as he did so. She wanted to rip it out, watch him silently scream as he bled away into oblivion. The very thought of it left her shaking, emotions bubbling within her stomach. It was a disease. A horrid disease.

But she let the madness in.

Wordlessly, the proctor began the duel.

"[color=66cd00]DIE FOR ME FIORDILATTE![/color]" she growled, the guttural cry resounding through the battlefield. "[color=66cd00]LET ME HEAR YOUR SCREAMS![/color]"

She charged. Her blade hissed through the air. Steel rang against steel. Valens cried out with its wielder in lust and anger as it met the Neapolitan's elegant rapier. Gleaming silver against dull grey. A step to the right. The clash broke. A step back. Her foe stabbed forwards. Parry. A lilting cackle. Blood was rushing. Her heart was pounding. This was love. She was truly and utterly blessed by the Lord here.

No advantage had been gained. The first sally ended with no victor.

Her blood sang for her opponent's, but she resisted, allowing her feet to drag her back to their positions.

Oh how she wished it was no mere hastilude, but a true war between two chevaliers. Yet the tenets laid out by the King were not to be broken. To defy God's will upon this cursed world was horrid heresy.

The second bout began.

Valens caught against Arsene. A wordless scream escaped her. The dishonourable scum sought to combat her with his little parrying dagger. Her arm lashed out. Blood flowed from her right palm. Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. Red dripped upon the silver of Mercutio. The edge continued to cut into her hand. Her grip tightly refused to budge. She drank in the discord in her foe's usually-impassive visage. Aura shifted with the wind. She kicked upwards.

Napoli disengaged.

Mercutio clattered against the earth, a sheen of blood newly coating its surface.

Another stalemate for the second sally.

Pain lanced through her arm. A low, bloodthirsty chuckle left her throat. This was what she fought for. This feeling ... it was the gift retrieved from those glorious throes of combat. She tore a strip of cloth from her once garbed left arm and wrapped it around her wound. No scratch could stop her. None at all.

She was going to fucking crush Fiordilatte, wounded or not.

The purity of the fight was what she lived for. The screams ... the blood ... the struggle ... it was positively orgasmic in nature.

Valens was joined by Valentinian. A fire lance from the Orient ... its presence ... the smell of saltpetre and brimstone ... it simply sang of her opponent's death. Already, she could see the bastard prepare his crossbow Scapino. He was serious now. The subdued expression ... her animalistic grin grew. There would not have been any entertainment whatsoever in fighting her fellow Mistralian had his spirit not been utterly devoted to the fight. Now she could truly enjoy ripping him to pieces.

"[color=66cd00]You're a devious little fucker,[/color]" she called, voice filled with happiness.

Her heart felt like it was going to burst.

Her hated foe would meet her with the same conviction here. And he would die by her hand upon this bout. There was nothing more that she had wanted than to tear Napoli apart like the flaky little bastard he was. Here was her chance. Valens and Valentinian sang with her soul. Upon the names of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit ... Napoli Fiordilatte would die here and now.

"[color=FADA5E]I know I am.[/color]"

That mocking little shit.

[i]BIBERE VINUM[/i]

"[color=66cd00]I will fucking feast on your blood Fiordilatte![/color]"

And the dance began. Valens deflected the might arrow that streaked towards her face. Valentinian's fire burned away from Fiordilatte's chest. Steel met steel once again. She cackled, the sound ringing through the air. They engaged and disengaged. Her blood seethed. An arrow whistled across her shoulder. Her blade cut lightly against her foe's arm. There was no weight to it. It was a fight that was utterly shallow. Yet she loved every moment of it. She swung around to fire into Napoli's side. It missed. Her foe spun away, the miracles provided to him by God redirecting her attack.

They were getting nowhere.

Nowhere at all.

She parried away a thrust from Napoli's rapier. He caught Valens on the edge of his sword-breaker effortlessly. She roared, disengaging before firing off a gout of flame from Valentinian. He flew. She rushed after him. She would never let him go. He was [i]hers[/i]. Always hers.

Her mad laughter mixed with his grounded chuckles.

Engage. Disengage. Steel against steel.

This was the fight she had always wanted.

But in the end ...

"Third bout, ended!"

... they would never get anywhere, would they?

Gratia breathed in deeply, letting her muscles relax. Sweat ran down her skin. Her pupils dilated slowly, the tension flowing out of her body. Her face began to school itself. The fight was over ... over with no resolution.

Fiordilatte still wouldn't fucking roll over and die like the dog he was.

But ... her eyes glanced up at the King. He was watching them with approval.

At least she had obtained the glory she deserved.[/hider]